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Michael Whitehouse: Nearby

While it is known by some that I have a keen interest in the uncanny – seeking it out on occasion – nevertheless it proved a decidedly unsettling experience to find such a strange event taking place just a few feet from my front door.

The street that I lived on at the time was like any other, not an affluent place, nor one mired in poverty; a mix of kind, selfish, and apathetic neighbours, some taking interest in those around them, others not. It was a relatively quiet area but I had a fondness for it, as the large birch trees – which occasionally drooped over hedges and fences from both cared for and neglected lawns – reminded me of my childhood. Despite being just a few minutes from a busy motorway, only the occasional car came plodding through to disturb the peace – joined at times by sporadic domestic arguments which resonated from home to house, unhindered by the quiet – and so children played outside in the summer sun, some more pleasantly than others. I would have to describe the street from top to bottom as quite, quite, ordinary. I’m sure you can imagine then how shocked I was to find what I did surrounded by the mundane.

I should correct myself here, it was not what I found, but rather what my neighbour initially discovered. His name was Bill and he had moved in to the house next door only a few months previous, nevertheless in that short time we had grown to be firm friends; neighbourhood barbecues, Friday nights at the local pub, a shared fondness for classic films – we got on well.